


The Hunger Days

by Sunflower92



Category: Enderal (Video Game)
Genre: Depression, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, suicide ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-15 01:36:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29800974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunflower92/pseuds/Sunflower92
Summary: Tharaêl is living in the Prophetess' home after the events of The Dark Chambers of Our Minds, but his recovery is still a ways away.Story contains depictions of depression and suicide ideation.
Relationships: The Prophetess/Tharaêl Narys
Kudos: 2





	The Hunger Days

Tharael didn’t remember much of the weeks that followed the Father’s ascension. For reasons unknown his new partner had offered to let him use her own residence as a safehouse as he went to ground hiding from the Rhalata, an offer which he had accepted. He expected her to give him over to them with whatever explanation she chose in exchange for some kind of financial reward but he went along with it anyway. He was tired…too tired to care about something as small as a betrayal for money. He didn’t have it in him to care about whatever came next. Instead of dying, he’d let the Mercenary pull him from the edge, whether she realized it or not, and the idea of following Letho and Nessah and the rest into wherever they were now only got further away. Not because he felt better, fuck no, it just…felt too far away now. His death didn’t matter, his life didn’t matter. Whatever happened next would happen next. There was nothing else attached to that small fact.  
  
But even after enough time had passed that he knew she probably wasn't going to sell him out, he still didn’t know what to make of his partner and her generosity. They’d spoken in the past about what he and Letho had suffered from the Father and he felt simultaneous annoyance and appreciation at her pity. More so the former than the latter, however. Even now he felt the smallest bit indignant at the possibility of being someone’s pity project, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave. If she wanted to prove something to herself by helping him then that was her business, he just wanted to be left alone. He was worried in the early days that he’d have to deal with her coddling, but mercifully she was seldom home. She’d be gone for days at a time, stopping by only to run errands, drop off supplies and purchases, and sleep. He never asked her where she’d been.  
  
Thankfully, she likewise never asked how he filled his days, perhaps because she knew he barely moved from his bed. In those first days he didn’t move at all. Instead he would sleep as much as he could and when he was awake he just lay there thinking about Letho and everything the Father said. He still didn’t want to believe any of it, but he couldn’t deny that his explanation made sense of a lot of things he hadn’t been able to explain about himself, such as why he was suddenly stronger and healthier after his torture and death than he was when he was a child, why old scars had seemingly disappeared, or why he suddenly had a different eye color. Other times he’d only think about the lives he’d spent so easily, believing it would bring him closer to justice or peace, only to end up with neither. And more often than not this line of thought would end with him visualizing Letho’s…Brother Sorrow’s familiar face, devoid of the wry expression he worn so often as a boy, falling into darkness as the blood erupted from his neck. Still, most of the time it was a relief to be alone. He didn’t need to force himself to talk to people or eat or wash. And although, occasionally, he would dreamily wander throughout the Mercenary’s house looking for rope or sharp objects he would easily give up.  
  
But sometimes, after hours of remembering being pulled from his bunk in the Refuge, or awaking in the corpse pit, or the old man and his family, or the Temple, or Letho, when he could only curl up and silently wish for it all to stop, he would sometimes also wish for someone, anyone, to find him, for someone to sit next to him and hold his hand. In those moments solitude didn’t seem like such a blessing. He didn’t know how he would react if the possibility actually came up, but in those excruciating moments he would have given anything for that simple touch, to have anyone be there.  
One day, when the Mercenary stopped by, she came up the stairs to check on him. Which was something she usually did, if only to see if he was still there, still alive. But this time she came up the stairs with a mug and something bulging in her jacket pocket. She set the mug and an apple on the dresser next to the bed and snapped her fingers over his ear as he gazed at the wall.  
  
“Come on, sit up.”  
  
And because it was easier than arguing or resisting he obeyed.  
  
She handed him the apple, “Eat. Even just a few bites.”  
  
He took a few half-hearted bites, then set it on the dresser. Next she handed him the mug, which he saw was filled with water.  
  
“Drink,” She said, “No, the whole thing.”  
  
Again he obeyed, but this time he held on to the mug. She reached to take it back, only for him to grasp her hand with his free one. He didn’t move, he just soaked in the knowledge that the touch provided: that he wasn’t alone or adrift in space and time. He was there, in a near-stranger’s house, being cared for. And, for whatever reason, she didn’t pull away. She just stood there, without trying to make him speak or look at her, running her thumb across his knuckles.


End file.
